A Little Black Folder
by AlyshebaFan1
Summary: This is not a fic by a Shawn fan. This is a Carlowe - two tiny vignettes, and nothing terribly exciting. I've heard that Marlowe's one tough cookie, and this is how I really, really wish (and hope) she is portrayed on the show. Be warned: Shawn does not look good in this fic, but I think it's about time he got a little payback.


WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! This is not a Shules fic. This is not a Shawn The Hero fic. This is a Carlowe fic. So if you're a Shules/Shawn fan and are still reading...why, exactly?

* * *

Carlton was going over what was easily the most boring part of his job: requisition reports.

He had to make _three_ freaking copies of those reports, and make sure whatever office equipment he had ordered jibed with the amount of money spent on them all (one for Vick, one for the mayor's office, one for the filing cabinet, as if it cared). The only vaguely interesting part of the whole damned thing was rounding off whatever supplies Spencer had stolen from the bullpen and gleefully deducting said amounts from the little prick's 'consulting fee'. No wonder he was always short for cash and constantly stealing Guster's credit card – by the end of Carlton rounding off a payment and sending it on to payroll, _Psych_ usually got two hundred dollars, tops, per case.

He had honed his skills in the art of subterfuge in his years of dealing with Spencer – he wasn't Irish for nothing, after all. The little brat thought he was getting off Scot free for all his general asshattedness, but Henry's darling boy had no idea what a tab he was running, much less all the miles of video tape Carlton had of the sleazy little jerkoff breaking into people's homes, stealing evidence, withholding said evidence, obstructing justice, lying, cheating and just being a massive jerk. One day, Carlton was going to lower the boom and he was determined to have an airtight case ready for action.

He glanced up at his partner, who was frowning at some report. She looked tired – from what he had heard, she had sat up all night watching _The Three Stooges_ with her boyfriend and Guster (because God knew, all dates between two people who 'wuv' each other all to pieces must involve a third wheel), and like almost all women, she hated Larry, Moe and Curly with a passion. Carlton wasn't terribly fond of them either, and there was no way he was going to make Marlowe sit up all night or even for an hour to watch something she _didn't like_. She didn't make him do that, either. She hadn't pushed him into watching _Downton Abbey_, after all, but he did because the story was actually pretty good and it was nice to see toffee-nosed English prigs getting their pooches screwed by the IRA. Marlowe had even gotten him to watch movies based on Jane Austen novels - they weren't that bad, though, and in return she had agreed to watch _Jane Austen's Mafia!_ and they had laughed themselves silly over the stupidity of that one. Then it had been _Wives & Daughters_ and the hilariously idiotic Austin Powers movies. Tonight they were going to eat lasagna and watch _Fierce Creatures_, which was one of his favorites of all time.

He watched O'Hara for a moment and only felt sympathy for her. He didn't look forward to the notion of O'Hara being unhappy, but lately he had sensed that something wasn't _right_ between his partner and her boyfriend, and only Spencer had that kind of talent for making people unhappy while refusing to acknowledge his hand in it. Hissed exchanges, furious glares, and an air of hostility occasionally existed between them - actually, more than just occasionally, these days. Carlton had frequently come upon them arguing, and she usually had the little moron cowering. Maybe – just maybe – she was finally coming to her senses. He could only hope, because he wanted her to be happy. There was no way a thirteen-year old boy could make a grown woman happy.

His phone rang and he snatched it up, relieved to have something else to do for a few minutes. He was startled, then, to hear sobbing.

"What the…hello? Who is this?"

"Carlton? Baby, I'm so sorry…"

"Marlowe? What's wrong?" He was immediately on full alert, looking in his desk for his gun, ready to roll.

"I…I wrecked it."

"Wrecked what?" he asked, bewildered.

"The Fusion."

His shoulders slumped and he collapsed back into his chair, at once horrified and vastly relieved that she seemed to be physically all right. "What happened?"

"A tiny man in a big truck rear-ended me and knocked me into the guy in front of me. I was at a red light and this idiot barrels into me and I lurched right into a Mercedes _Benz_, for God's sake. I was going to go buy stuff to make the lasagna tonight. A ten-minute trip, both ways, and now…oh, Carlton, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, well, that's great. I love your lasagna." Carlton said, rubbing his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I wrecked it!" she wailed. "I wrecked your car!"

"Marlowe! Are. _You._ Oh. Kay?"

"I think so, but the car looks like a squashed bug." She blew her nose. Carlton knew that when his wife cried, she tended to break into hives and her eyes turned red, so that she looked like an alcoholic who had just learned her dog had been shot. When she cried, he searched for the chocolate bars, got a glass of ice cubes to help bring down the swelling, and didn't mind his shirt getting ruined.

"Is your neck hurting? Your head, your back? Are you fingers tingling? Can you feel your toes…?"

"I can feel everything, unfortunately, including a powerful headache. I'm really bruised up by the airbag…I thought I was gonna suffocate in the damned thing," she said, between wet sobs.

"Jesus, Marlowe…is an ambulance there yet?"

"I…yes…they're checking out the little man in the truck. The Mercedes guy is calling his lawyer, I think, but he's pissed at the little guy in the truck. The Mercedes guy was actually pretty nice – he helped me out of the car and made sure I was okay before he started yelling at the truck guy."

"Good for him. Have the EMT's check you over, and if they say you need to go to the ER, go, okay?"

"I don't wanna go to the ER. I'm okay," she said, sounding plaintive and stubborn at once.

"Marlowe, do not argue with me about this."

"But the car!"

"Marlowe, forget about the condition of the damned car. It's dead. It has a DNR order, for God's sake." He sat back, thinking, then leaned forward again. "Still…listen to me. Are you able to get to the glove compartment?"

"Uh…yeah. The drivers' side door won't even close any more."

He winced. His Fusion…damn, he had liked that car.

"Okay. Get to the glove compartment and get the papers out. There's a vinyl folder type thing in there – it's black." He heard the sound of the door being pulled open, and then a sickening crash. "What the hell was that?" he asked her.

"The door fell off."

He put his elbow on his desk and let his head drop onto the heel of his palm. "Right. Well. Did you find the folder?"

"Um…" He heard more sounds - papers sliding around, a clattering followed by glass tinkling (the expensive binoculars – another loss), and finally the sound of the Velcro tab being pulled apart. More shuffling papers. "Right. I found the papers."

"Good. Now, the papers are all updated. The guy hit you, so it's his fault, not yours. He also is responsible for knocking you into somebody else, so don't worry about that, either, and the insurance will pay for most of a new car. So that's all settled. _Don't worry about it any more_. Do you see a little card in a flap in the other side of the folder, opposite the papers?"

_Sniff_. "Yes."

"Get it out and read it to me."

More shuffling. A pause. "I found it," she said softly.

"Read it to me."

"'_Dear Marlowe. I love you, not the car'." _ He heard more soft weeping, and was just relieved she was all right. A little damp and bruised, but okay.

"See? It's a _car_. I can replace the damned car, Marlowe. I can't replace you, and don't ever want to. Now do what the EMT's say – that's an _order_. If they say go to the hospital, go, and don't argue. Where are you?"

"Somerville and Eighth," she said, her tears subsiding into helpless laughter. "You big dope…I was so scared you'd be mad. I was ready for you to be mad."

"I'm only mad about you. I'll be there in five. I'll look for the flashing lights. Hold on, baby, I'm comin'."

* * *

Marlowe snuggled against Carlton, listening to his breathing. The bruises on her chest – from the seatbelt and the airbag – were fading nicely, but still ached a little. Not that that had impeded some very vigorous lovemaking after dinner, and she thought briefly of the long year and a half of her 'unfortunate incarceration', as they now called their long separation. She had looked forward to spending her life with him, after getting out, and all her worries and concerns had faded away with the reality of being Mrs. Carlton Lassiter. After a life of taking care of Adrian and nearly everybody else in her life, it was nice to be taken care of now, feminism be damned.

Of course, she still had a mother-hen instinct when it came to Carlton. She liked to cook for him, because he needed a little meat on his bones (not too much, of course), and she loved to make him relax and just enjoy life. She loved giving him massages and fussing over him, because God knew he hadn't had much of that in his life and he damned well deserved it.

He stirred slightly, but didn't awaken. She sighed and rested her head on his chest, breathing in his scent. He was so…_male._ The most male man she had ever known, really. He tended to over-react sometimes, and could start snarling and snapping if mistreated or pushed too hard, but some soothing words, a few kisses, and just some _quiet_ made him settle down again. Really, all he needed was food, sex and admiration, and she was delighted to provide all three.

He wasn't nearly as moody as people thought – in fact, he was remarkably patient. He simply liked to have things done in a certain way, and didn't like change much. So she hadn't changed much in the condo, aside from repainting their bedroom a light, soft blue and adding a few of her own decorative pieces here and there. Otherwise, she was happy and contented with her new life, and all she wanted was to see her husband the same.

She was just drifting off to sleep when the phone rang. Carlton jerked awake, gasping "What?!"

"Shh…" she said, and reached across him to grab the phone, swatting his hand away. She looked at the caller ID and saw 'Blocked Number'. She paused, letting the phone ring twice more before she hit 'Answer'. "Hello?"

"Alloo? Alloo? Eez dis de Lazziter razidanz?"

Marlowe sighed. She rolled over and opened the bedside table drawer, digging around a little until she found what she was looking for. "Yes," she said, stretching a little and swallowing a yawn. Carlton had collapsed onto his face and was sleeping again. She was delighted that he didn't snore. In fact, he slept so quietly that on their wedding night she had become alarmed, thinking he had perished from so much delightful debauchery.

"Ah, zat eez guud. Ah am Doctair Lazenboosh of the Zoziety for ze Protecktshun af Foraist Roadants…"

"Oh, are you?" Marlowe asked sweetly.

"Yayz! We are hooping yew and your hoozband would be weelling to make a dohnation to our wairthy cawz…"

Marlowe put the whistle to her lips then and blew, long and hard, into the mouthpiece of the phone. She listened with satisfaction to the searing howl of pain and terror. She heard a crash, more agonized screaming, and finally she heard the phone clatter on the floor, followed by more screams. _"My ear is bleeding! Gus! Gus! My ear is bleeding!_"

_"What are you doing?"_

_"I…I can't hear! What did you say?"_

_"I said what you doing?"_

_"Why am I mooing? I'm not mooing! My ear is bleeding! Why would I moo about my ear bleeding?!"_

_"My God, you are such an idiot, Shawn." _She heard the phone being picked up, more wailing, and finally she heard Gus. "Uh…hi…Marlowe."

"Prank phone calls, Gus? Really? How old are you again?"

"I told him not to do it."

"Is his ear really bleeding?"

_"Hold still Shawn!_" A pause. "Yes. It is. _Shawn, can you hear me? Shawn? You damn fool!_ No, he can't hear out of it at all."

_"Lamb wool? What about lamb wool?"_

"Good. Write down a message for the little prick, will you?"

Another pause. She could hear Shawn wailing in the background, demanding to be taken to the ER. She heard papers shuffling, and finally Gus told her to go ahead.

"Tell Widdle Shawnie-Boy his fun days of being a bullying little piss-ant are _over_. He very unwisely ticked off Marlowe Viccellio Lassiter, and from now on, when he bothers my husband, he'll have to deal with _me_…and you can bet that he does _not_ want to deal with me, because I learned a few things in prison that he doesn't even want to _think_ about, and I won't even leave a _bruise_ on him to use as evidence. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Loud and clear."

"You might also want to _intimate_ to him that I know some people, and with one little phone call I can have him assassinated. Is _that_ clear?"

"To the extreme." She thought she could hear a smile in Gus's voice, but she wasn't totally sure. She knew Guster was loyal to Spencer, though it bewildered her as to why. Frankly, a little counseling would likely do poor Gus a lot of good.

"And if he steals your credit card again, call me." She hung up, reached over and put the phone back where it belonged. Carlton, on his knees beside the bed – where he had fallen, yelping, when she blew the high-powered whistle – was staring at her, wide-eyed.

"I hope I never make you really, really mad."

"I'm sure you will eventually, honey, but you're my husband and I love you and nothing will ever make me do anything like that to you. Come on back to bed, baby, and let me show you just how much I'm on _your_ side."

-FIN-


End file.
